


Sweet Kit, Remembered

by bofoddity



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofoddity/pseuds/bofoddity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At his deathbed, Will has time to think about Kit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Kit, Remembered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigrrmilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/gifts).



The last time Will saw Kit would haunt him.

It had been a busy street, busy winter, busy life that Will was living; he had plays to write and perform, so it had been a surprise when a feeling had pierced through that fog of thought. A tingle had dashed down his spine, telling him that he was being watched, so he had looked for the nearest building and the nearest wall to turn his back to before looking back. Far away he had seen a lanky figure, topped by a lion's mane, walking away fast into crowds and London life. It had happened fast, so fast it had barely been a sighting at all. He had chosen to continue on his way.

"You weren't sure," he would tell himself later, pointlessly.

He had forgotten about it, because there was work and a tour to think of, and simple lack of time. By the time the news of Kit's death had reached him, what could have been their last meeting was almost gone from his mind. And he had chosen to keep it that way, for that day, for years, until now that his own twilight was coming, and there was nothing else to think. Kit would have liked it this way, he supposed. Kit would have known that by meeting Will, he had changed Will's entire life.

They had both been young men when they began their careers in London, and in some ways they had been much the same. Fierce, bold, driven by hunger that neither of them could describe, but that could only be sated through creation. Kit had started out on a path paved with education and connections, yet humbled by neither; Kit had been the kind of man who ran straight into fires, all strut, boasts and arrogance, an unavoidable storm to all who crossed his way. It would have been impossible for Will to not be aware of him, to not watch and listen and learn anything he could from him, so he had never tried not to. That had eventually brought them together.

"History," Kit had remarked, on the first night they had sat at a tavern together, alone. They had talked about their works, what was done and what would come and Kit's voice hadn’t betrayed slightest interest in what Will was working on. It had been natural for Kit; he was the center of his own world and that's where most of his interests lay. But he hadn’t tried to leave either. "Henry the Sixth. What fascinates you about him?"

"Failure. People are always interested in tragedies of others," - Kit's first laughter in his company, an understanding chuckle - "and there was no end of it in King Henry's life. What’s not to write about?"

Will had hesitated then, suddenly jealous of all the choices he had with that tragedy, that he'd probably be better off not sharing with competitors; he had taken a decisive breath.

"And that tragedy didn't end with him, so I won’t end there either."

He could never know for sure if Kit knew, just how much Will had shared with those words, but from practical angle it hadn't mattered. Will had got what he wanted when Kit had set both his elbows on the table, leaned a little in, intense eyes softening with a welcome. "What would you like to discuss with me?"

There was never actual need for them to work together, because they couldn't go on otherwise or they desperately needed help. Kit especially had wanted to do things his way and his way alone, keep his enormous talent in his own hands, so that he had agreed to work on Will’s ideas with Will had been a tremendous thing. After that one great step had been taken, Will had felt like nothing would be impossible for him, or him and Kit after that. Now that many years had passed, Will knew he had been right.

He had been right, and yet he hadn't thought things quite through enough. Working together with Kit had been a great step to take, and Will had thought nothing could match that. Kit had felt differently.

"It seems that you have become my muse," Kit had started. "I have a play about a king, too."

"Oh." This hadn't surprised Will. History of Henry the Sixth had turned out to be a success, play about Richard the Third even more so; Kit just had to try to top that.

What had surprised him was that one little word, muse. Personification of inspiration, inspiration itself; a practical thing at the end. Not a reason to feel that he was out of breath, stunned to his place.

"Who did you pick?" It would be a beginning of a game, he had thought. Kit wanted to know if he could make Will dance by his command.

"Edward, the Second." Kit’s smile had answered his question. "King who was undone by his passions."

Will never knew if he had really seen Kit on the day that was to haunt him, but on this other day he had known everything: Kit's reputation, Kit's honesty, how he and Kit would meet sometimes like this, always talking about writing, watching and reading one other. That Kit knew all about passions that made men fall, and gladly went along with them. Kit had reached out over the table and taken Will's hand into his.

"We take advantage of things we know,” Will had said, staring into Kit's ever burning eyes as Kit had picked up his hand and brought it to his lips, sliding that soft, warm mouth over his knuckles, brushing his tongue down to joints of his fingers, drawing the tips between his lips. He had allowed Kit to teach him how.

Will was an old man now, spending every sunset wondering if it was going to be his last, memories of Kit as sharp and ripping as ever in his mind. Memories that had been veiled for years, for William Shakespeare, the playwright and the poet, didn’t want to fall as the doomed King Edward had. Young Will had felt the same way, yielding to pleasure and love in secret but never freely. He could have lived with that, but for Kit it wasn’t even a choice. Kit had needed the scandals and infamy, danger and death to live, so Will had let him go.

Was Kit ever haunted by that, like Will had been destined to? They had never talked about matters of faith, but whether there was God or not, afterlife or not, Will hoped that when the time came for him, Kit would too. He had a farewell to say.

He thought of this and other things whenever the sun went down, until the last time.


End file.
